


In Defeat

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Series: Loyalty [6]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25157320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By DiamondEmotion defeats all in Lothlorien. Chapter 6 of Tale Two in the Hobbits and Men series.
Relationships: Boromir (Son of Denethor II)/Sam Gamgee, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Series: Loyalty [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819990
Kudos: 1
Collections: Least Expected





	In Defeat

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters belong to Tolkien; no money was made for this. It is done for love.  
> Feedback: !!Feedback!!  
> Notes: A touch of movie cannon in this chapter--I just loved Boromir's lines to Aragorn and his torment.

The first of the Fellowship was dead.

Sam had known it could happen; had accepted it might be his fate if he chose to accompany Frodo on this mission. But he had never, not in his darkest musings, imagined it could take one as powerful and wondrous a figure as Gandalf. Like a grandfather, like a wise old uncle--no, that was all wrong. There weren't words to describe what Gandalf had been to him, had been to everyone, he felt.

At first he couldn't' seem to stop crying--he cried until he couldn't see, though the gash in his forehead didn't help matters too much on that, blindly running along at Mr. Frodo's side towards the forests of Lothlorien. When he saw his master's injuries, that stopped the tears; instead he felt guilty. He hadn't been there when he was most needed. If Bilbo hadn't made that gift back in Rivendell . . . Sam shuddered. In the heat of battle, he had fought bravely maybe, but not wisely. Next time he'd stay closer to Frodo and if some orc chief tried to skewer Frodo, he'd cut off the orc's hand.

When they reached the fair woods, the grief and the darkness seemed to recede a bit; the elves still held a bit of wonder for Sam, though he just about fell over when they asked poor Mr. Frodo and himself to climb up into that flet thing. Luckily he'd been so tired at that point he could have slept on the back of one of those flying eagles from Bilbo's tales. While it was flying. No straps or nothing. He was that tired.

Then the blindfolds, and that awful rope to walk across, and Cerin Amroth--well now if that didn't put one out of grief and right into singing, nothing could, and that was a fact. And the elven 'city' of Caras Galadhon with those big mallorn trees . . . if he could grow a tree like that he'd call himself a gardener. Truly. But the Lady Galadriel, and the images she put in his head--how ever did she know all of that? Fair to say he'd gone redder than beets, make no mistake. If the others should guess what she offered him--he'd yammered about finding a hole and a garden, but he couldn't say 'with Frodo', for on the tail of that image had come the other, the one about Boromir. Oh, he didn't' know if he could face the Lady of the Golden Woods again after that.

He knew he was not the only one affected. What she had offered Frodo, he would not say. Why? Because he did not want to lay bad luck on the wish by naming it, or because Sam had not been a part of his visions? And Merry--oh, but Sam knew just looking at him what the Lady had offered him. It was in his eyes every time he looked at Pippin when he thought no one was looking.

Aragorn? Ah, but that weren't no hard thing to guess. Sam remembered Bilbo's tale of Arwen Undomiel, but that was hardly a trial, for Aragorn was on just the path he needed to be to gain her hand. Legolas and Gimli--he couldn't say. Didn't know enough about their races, their desires. And Boromir, who looked more haunted than any of them. Sam was afraid to think what he had been offered. He feared it was something much worse than the rest of them.

They milled about in the pavilion the elves had set up for their stay at the roots of a great mallorn, and Sam saw Aragorn walk over to where Boromir sat alone, looking torn and miserable. From where Sam sat on a blanket spread out on the grass next to Frodo, he couldn't hear all that was said, especially as Boromir and Aragorn had their backs to the rest of the party, but he didn't' need to hear all the words. Boromir's will was breaking.

"Our people lose hope . . ." This was too raw; Sam didn't want to hear any more. He didn't' know what Boromir had felt about Gandalf or if this was because of the "questioning" at the hand of Galadriel, but he had never seen the warrior close to tears, so very weak and vulnerable. He had an urge to --what? Go over and comfort the big Man? (and that of course brought up the accompanying question of "how"--an arm casually flung around Boromir's shoulder, a quick nuzzle, an embrace, a kiss . . . . ) Best he stay here. Aragorn had matters well in hand, as always.

Sam was bone tired, but still too wound up to sleep. Merry sat with Pippin, quietly rocking the younger hobbit and comforting him--of all the Fellowship Sam thought Pip was taking Gandalf's loss the hardest. Between hiccupping sobs, Pippin was confessing to Merry every transgression he'd ever made or thought of making having anything to do with Gandalf, as if somehow he were at fault for their losing him. Strangely enough, Gimli was helping Merry in his own gruff sort of way, sitting a little off from them, listening and nodding, quietly refuting all Pippin's claims to blame. Legolas was off walking, grieving in the still, reflective way that Sam supposed was normal for elves.

And Frodo . . . Frodo was silent. Closed up tight, but Sam knew as sure as he was shouting the words that Frodo felt he, not Pippin, was wholly to blame. So pale and drawn he looked, with circles under eyes that looked almost frighteningly huge, filled with misery and despair. Sam moved to embrace him, but Frodo pushed him back.

"Sam, why, oh why did I ever agree to go through Moria?" He whispered.

Sam took his hand--at least his master would let him have that, and rubbed at it energetically. "Gandalf said we mustn't go south, and you followed his advice. It's not your fault, sir, you must see that."

Frodo shook his head fiercely, and drew back his hand. "But it is my fault, Sam, don't you see? I shouldn't have brought all of you out here. Especially not Pippin," he said the last in a barely audible whisper, looking over to where Pippin had stopped talking and was finally falling asleep, still tightly held in Merry's arms. Merry looked over at them, his face drawn, exhausted.

Sam hurt at not being allowed to touch Mr. Frodo, but he understood. He'd felt that kind of self loathing before. But weeds take his garden if he was going to let Frodo feel that way. "It's not your fault the Ring got made, sir, and it's not your fault we insisted on coming. Above all, I'd say Gandalf would agree with me on this one. You've got a job to do, and we're here to make sure you live to do it. That's our job, and don't you go holding grudges against us for taking it. Gandalf wouldn't want that." That was about as much as he could get out, before his own throat began to close up on him and choke off the words. But he saw it wasn't enough. Frodo had closed up tight, and he wasn't letting no one in.

Boromir got up and walked off, and Aragorn sat watching, his face grey and sad. Suddenly Frodo was rising to his feet. Sam looked up at him and inwardly groaned--on his face was an expression similar to the one he'd had in Rivendell--the night he and Aragorn . . . Frodo looked down at him and gripped his shoulder.

"I need to talk to him, Sam. Just talk. Nothing else." He crossed over to Aragorn and whispered something to him, and Aragorn nodded and stood. The two of them began walking down one of the paths--a different one from the one Boromir had taken.

Sam felt his face burning, the anger and jealousy eating him up inside. It wasn't that he didn't trust Frodo. He did. It was stupid, but the reason was purely selfish--he wanted to be the one who had everything Frodo needed, who could give him strength when he faltered. Perhaps he was not as wise as Aragorn, perhaps he didn't have the quiet self assurance, but he wished he did, if that was what Frodo needed. And suddenly he wanted to hurt Frodo; do something terrible and spiteful, and that wasn't like him at all--oh, he was all mixed up in the head. He needed some air, a chance to think.

"I'm going for a walk," he announced to Merry and Gimli. Merry yawned and nodded; he looked about ready to drop off. Gimli too; he was leaning back into a tree root, his arms folded over his beard, his eyelids drooping. Sam stood and donned his cloak. Then he set out on the path Boromir had taken, thinking perhaps as both of them were depressed they could maybe have a talk of their own while Aragorn was helping Frodo. Just talk, he reminded himself. Nothing more.

But why not more? He suddenly thought to himself as he walked, hardly seeing the elf tended beds of ferns and wildflowers, the slim stems of newly planted saplings coaxed to grow in wondrous fanciful shapes. Frodo had sated his lust. Why not him? He wasn't all that Frodo needed; tonight showed that plainly. No, what was he thinking--he couldn't. Shouldn't. But wanted to, desperately.

Suddenly before he had a chance to prepare himself mentally, there was Boromir, sitting on a small stone bench off in a little glade hemmed round with bushy young fir trees and a tall bare aspen whose golden leaves covered the ground in a soft carpet. The Man looked startled to be disturbed; his gloves and cloak were off, one glove strewn half across the glade while the cloak lay in a puddle at his feet. He looked like he had been crying.

Whatever thoughts Sam had been contemplating flew straight out of his head; he only saw a friend in pain and came forward to wrap his arms around Boromir's shoulders and squeeze him hard.

At first Boromir drew back, but Sam looked up into his face, aware of tears gathering at the corners of his own eyes, and whatever Boromir saw there seemed to comfort him; he cracked a bitter smile and wrapped his own arms around Sam, closing his eyes, bowing his head, and breathing in hard heaving sobs. Sam found he was breathing hard too--he didn't want to cry more, but his body seemed to have other thoughts on that. He tried talking, but only one topic seemed to want to come out of his mouth. "Frodo's gone to Aragorn again," he said in a half-choked whisper.

"Again?" Boromir bent down to look at him in confusion, and Sam realized he didn't know, had never guessed the full story. He struggled to compose himself, scrubbing angrily at his eyes and drawing back to glare at the ground.

"It's nothing--should be nothing, leastways--it was just the one time, and they've both apologized for it, but I can't seem to forgive and forget. And I so want to . . ." Sam beat his fist into his thigh, so tired of the damn thing, so awfully tired and sick of heart. He was aware of Boromir's presence beside him, the heat of his body, and suddenly he knew. It was the only way to get past this; maybe it would break him and Frodo both, but they were breaking anyways, whether or not he kept his loyalty. He was just so tired of holding back.

Before Boromir could pull away, before Sam could let himself think about his actions, he reached up and hooked one hand behind Boromir's neck and drew his face down, rising up on the bench to claim his mouth in a bruising kiss. Perhaps Boromir would shove him away; perhaps he would hit him--that would serve him right. He almost wanted it, wanted pain, and humiliation. He weren't no good having these feelings anyway. Had never been good enough for Frodo and now this just proved it.

Instead, Boromir groaned and leaned closer, grabbing the curls at the back of Sam's head in a crushing grip that felt strangely comforting, somehow, and very arousing. Sam had always been so careful with Frodo--because of his wound, because he was a gentlehobbit, because he was so delicate and thin and beautiful. It was nice to be rough, primal, to know he was not going to hurt the Man if he used all his strength.

He moaned as Boromir pushed his tongue past the barrier of lips and teeth, sucking hungrily at him, as desperate for contact seemingly as Sam was. Now Sam's hands were scrabbling at Boromir's shoulder, gathering up the leather surcoat in his fingers, scraping against the cold metal of the chain mail underneath. Boromir's soft prickly beard scraping against his cheek was making him crazy; Sam was practically climbing into the Man's lap to press closer and closer.

Sam's hands slid down Boromir's chest downwards, to the belt securing his scabbard and horn, lightly tugging at it questioningly. Boromir broke off the kiss and his gaze was hot enough to sear flesh. Sam flushed but held his gaze, challenging. Boromir licked his lips and swallowed.

"We shouldn't," he said in a low voice.

"Too late," Sam retorted. With a boldness he did not feel, still half wanting to goad the warrior into knocking him senseless, Sam ran his hand down the inside of one hard muscled thigh, down to the knee and slowly back up again. Hurt me, Sam thought at him. Hit me or bed me. One or the other.

Boromir's eyes were half-closed, filled with lust. "It has been too long," he whispered, his legs falling open as Sam brushed his hand up against the hard core of him. Huge, Sam's mind registered as he ran his hand up and down the length of him. Briefly he wondered if he was taking on too much.

Then there wasn't time for thought, as Boromir unclasped his belt, setting down his sword and horn, removing his surcoat and overtunic and shrugging the mail shirt off to fall in a dull ringing thud on the ground. Now he wore only a soft woolen tunic, leggings, and boots. With a growl, he threw off the tunic and fumbled to pull Sam's shirt off of him.

Sam quickly slid off his braces and unfastened the top two buttons to help with the shirt's removal; his heart was pounding and he felt almost lightheaded. The ache in his groin had become a throbbing need, but he told it to wait, for he had something else in mind. He drank in the sight of Boromir's bare torso, muscled, lightly furred, and paler than he would have guess by Boromir's weathered face. Soft pink nipples on hard muscle--he licked and nibbled each, running his hands over the heated skin, drawing another growl and another crushing grasp at his hair, which sent hot shivers down his body, pain and pleasure mixed.

He did not linger long at Boromir's chest but moved steadily down, working together with Boromir to unlace his leggings and expose him to view. Lords of Mercy, he was big. Sam had seen ponies--well, best not to think about that. He did his best to get his mouth around him--he wouldn't be able to go deep, but he knew enough what to do with his hands and tongue. Soon enough, the Gondorian was sighing with pleasure and slowly thrusting up with his hips.

When he feared the Man was growing close, Sam stopped. Boromir groaned, staring down at him with glazed eyes, his luscious mouth half open. Sam had to climb up to kiss that mouth again, before asking, "Will you be on top with me? You know--the stallion?"

Boromir groaned, clutching at Sam's hips where they pressed into him, and shook his head weakly. "I'll hurt you," he gasped, but Sam knew he had pushed him far enough; he wouldn't refuse now. This was something he hadn't yet allowed Frodo to do to him--in Rivendell he had not been ready, and since then there had not been the opportunity. He didn't know why he wanted it now, except he needed to be taken. And oh yes, the pain would be welcome. He hoped he was split in two.

So he kissed Boromir, lightly pinching his nipples, rubbing his thigh against the Man's crotch, whispering, "Please, please, Boromir. Help me." With a shudder, Boromir nodded and slowly pushed Sam to the earth on his hands and knees, unfastening Sam's breeches and snaking in one large hand to grasp his hard member, pulling at it in long sweet strokes.

Sam rocked back against him with the pleasure, pulling down his breeches with one hand as he held his weight with the other. Frodo hated this position, but it was perfect for Sam's needs--on his hands and knees, facing away, a thing to be taken, bruised, scarred.

He shivered as he heard Boromir spit into his palm a few times, then he felt hard long fingers smoothing wetness over his hole, gently pushing forward--he forced himself to relax. He couldn't help remembering how it had been with Frodo, the first time, Frodo's soft refined voice guiding him as he entered his love so carefully, as if he might break . . . one finger, all the way in--could that really be just one finger? Yes, for certain, because here came another to join it--oh stars, he really was going to break apart--had he done this to Frodo?

Sam bit his lip to keep from crying out, telling himself over and over to just relax, be invaded, but he couldn't' help digging his fingers into the soft moist earth as Boromir stretched him and added a third--he whimpered, shuddering, and Boromir's fingers stilled.

"I should stop." Boromir withdrew his hand, lightly rubbing Sam's back with the other. Against his leg, Sam could feel his thick member, pulsing with need.

"Boromir, do it," he ordered, and about fell over realizing he was ordering the Son of Gondor as an equal, a superior even. Had he really just said that? What was wrong with him?

But Boromir obeyed, with a hot kiss and a nip to his shoulder, one arm wrapped almost protectively around Sam's waist as he positioned his cock at the entrance. Sam blew out a breath, preparing himself--he had softened a little during the preparation, but he was rapidly filling again with the thought of what he was about to do.

Boromir shoved forward and Sam gasped--the pain was too much to even cry out. Boromir gently nuzzled his neck, sucking on the tips of his ears, and he relaxed somewhat, allowing another inch in before the pain made him clench again.

"Oh, so tight, dear Sam, so good. Hold on, now, just a little--you will enjoy this, I promise. Relax for me. Trust me," Boromir whispered, rubbing him up and down his sides, resting a forehead damp with sweat on Sam's shoulder. Still he held him close with the one arm, while the other moved steadily down to softly knead his balls and stroke him--oh, that wonderful big soft hand . .. Sam let his head fall back, raising his bottom a little, and Boromir sank home with a moan.

The pain was receding--now there was only incredible fullness and something else--his body squirmed, searching for something, then as Boromir half withdrew and sank in again, a delicious warmth spread through Sam's body, and he trembled.

"There, yes," Boromir mumbled, and began to move, gentle at first, but soon losing control to move harder and faster, eventually slamming into Sam, gripping his waist with both hands and breathing in hard gasps.

Sam was close--oh it hurt; Boromir really was a bit large, but it felt so good as well. He concentrated on making sure Boromir hit that spot, that place deep inside that made his cock twitch and his belly cry out for more. "Please," he groaned, then Boromir's hand was on him again and he was coming, sucking in great gulps of air as he released his seed onto the ground. He heard Boromir choke back a cry, then the Man shuddered and came, his thumbs digging in so tight to Sam's hip he knew for sure they'd leave bruises.

They collapsed together on the soft bed of leaves and their cloaks, breathing heavily, neither speaking, arms wrapped around each other. Sam fought with himself, trying to hold back the thoughts, to cling to the afterglow, but he soon realized it was impossible. He heard muffled voices, somewhere nearby, and sat up, going cold all over. He looked to Boromir, but Boromir wasn't looking at him. The Man's face had returned to that haunted look, the look of despair.

"What have I done?" Sam whispered. He didn't mean for Boromir to hear, but Boromir frowned and looked at him accusingly. Sam felt a hot tear slip from his eye and splash on Boromir's bare chest. "I don't mean I regret--not with you--but . . ." He looked off where the voices had come from, and now it was painfully clear. That was Frodo's voice, and Aragorn's with him. "What will I do?" He asked Boromir, his hands beginning to shake.

"Talk to him. If he loves you, he will understand."

Sam gave a bitter laugh. "And if he doesn't?"

Boromir sat up and moved away, reaching for his cloak to clean himself off with. "You could always come stay with me. Come to Minas Tirith--perhaps help convince your master to choose that path as well--"

Sam leapt to his feet, eyes flashing. "You mean you wanted me only as a way to get at--" he gestured wildly in Frodo's direction, "--at it? The Ring?"

Boromir looked stricken. "Nay, Sam, nay! But . . ." The haunted look stole over his features once more. He closed his eyes. "If you stay with your master, don't trust me. I will do my best to stay loyal to the Fellowship, but . . . don't trust me, Sam. Keep your wariness."

"Sam?" Frodo's high clear voice was growing nearer, and with a frantic sense of doom, Sam struggled to don his clothing, noting in horror the clear marks on his sides, the lingering smell of sex. Oh dig him a hole and bury him! Why did he have to be so stupid?

Boromir dressed more slowly, watching him. "You may have regrets, but I do not. I am glad to have known you, Sam. I hope you find happiness."

Sam pulled on his shirt and dusted the dirt from his breeches as Frodo came into view. Hot tears were sliding down his cheeks--oh what a mess he was, what a mess he had made of things--why ever would Frodo take him back now, after what he had done?

Happiness seemed very far away.


End file.
